Connecting with God through poetic articulations of lived, embodied experience–engaging texts from the Revised Common Lectionary for Christian churches, other biblical and spiritual texts, and evocations of the divine in rituals and other public events–always accepting lived reality as a primary source of divine revelation and mystery.

When I hear Jesus speak of mustard seed, like a Mighty Mouse of faithful living, I think of Muhammad Ali, whose faith was awe-inspiring; it matters not to me whether his faith was in himself or in Allah or something else, in fact he moved mountains— he beat systems stacked against him and earned respect even from those who hated him. Would that I could be so faithful!!!

birminghamtimes.com

I was raised to hear Jesus shaming disciples, us, for not having enough faith— not even as much as a tiny mustard seed— when what he is offering is encouragement, indeed saying we have more than we need to do what we are called to do, who we are called to be in God’s economy of life and grace. We need not be slaves to former understandings, a Christianity that is about obligation, hard rules, having to earn God’s love, and falling short. Instead, we can break guilt-inducing chains, even turning his lesson about doing what is commanded, as if we have no choice, into a commitment to live joyously, exuberantly the way he did, not focused on duty alone but also on the gift that comes from being all we can be, of knowing that God calls us not to perfection but to faithfulness.

Hard to hear Jesus speak of slaves, given our history, how it continues to infect our world; I choose not to hear this parable as an endorsement of human cruelty. Instead, within the world he inhabits, he speaks of a system of mutual accountability, where each party provides what is expected: work by one and food, rest, care, and protection by the other. Might this be a way to understand faith—with one big difference: God provides the faith and the care, and hopes we will use them to make our whole selves and our world in God’s image? No divine punishment if we do or don’t, but we are accountable to God and each other for how we use God’s gifts, how we claim the power— do we hide our soul lamp under blankets of fear or do we boldly proclaim and live our mission, do we don our cape, remember with Muhammad Ali: impossible is opinion not fact?

People of means in your church help pay the bills, including salaries, and especially the pastor’s, and they are usually pleased and proud to do so, but conflict may arise when Jesus tells the parable of Lazarus and the unnamed rich man. What church, indeed what church leader, lay or ordained, would know the name of a beggar but not that of a rich man who either already gave funds to build the new addition (and where his name is on the plaque) or who is being asked to do so? But that is what Jesus does—leading us again to wonder what kind of leader he would be for our church? Could we afford a pastor who lives this way, turning the tables not only over in the sanctuary but also making it difficult, perhaps impossible, to buy new ones?

wikigallery.org

Here again Jesus provides comfort to the slave, the sharecropper, the unemployed, victims of racism, ableism, sexism, xenophobia, and all other ways we divide people into those with whom we connect, those we see, those whose eyes we meet, and those we walk by, step over, avert our eyes as if to say we deny they exist, echoing today in the claim “All Lives Matter” in response to anguished cries of many that some lives more than others are blown away by bullets, thrown away by poverty, discrimination and privilege.

Privilege. That is what the rich man had, the option not to see Lazarus, not even to see the dogs who licked Lazarus, infecting his wounds. So we see what to do, emulate Father Abraham, bring those we “diss” and dismiss into our heart, make it the bosom of Abraham—and that is not only the work of the rich but also many, including me, whose privilege is not only wealth greater than most of the world but also whose skin color, gender, ability, age, weight gives us a leg up in the marathon of life.

Oh that Jesus, doing it again, holding the mirror up to see ourselves so we can decide which actor in the parable is us— and perhaps choose how to respond . . . today.

There is a tree, an oak, our tree I say, although I do not know what kind of oak, that stands like a beacon outside my church, Metropolitan Community Church of Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America, a beacon of God calling the people to worship, to focus on higher things, to see the changing seasons through the glass above the communion table, to see God’s sacred squirrels and birds running, flying, landing in its branches, reminding us that life is more than our human-centered preoccupations, to accept rhythms of life that beat the universe into being and unfolding.

I love this tree, grateful to the people who designed the sanctuary so that when we sit in worship we face the tree, even now as it is dying, leaves shriveling up, clinging when they can to the branches just like I want to hang on to the trunk, resisting like the man in Tiananmen Square, refusing to accept what the authorities say I must, yet I know that denial while real, must give way to tears, to grief, to celebration of the faithfulness of this divine creature, agent of God who has served its time, whose angelic presence is needed elsewhere now, even as our memory will always be healing.

Authorities have painted the red blotch of impending death on the trunk, saying clearly tree homicide is about to be committed by those who don’t want trees to fall on passersby or into the sanctuary— I know they must do their job, but how I wish we could give sanctuary to our faithful friend, member, and beacon. What we can do is hug—yes, hug this tree— and speak our gratitude, perhaps we can even make something from the wood for the church as a permanent memorial; never forget our friends, those who stand with us through thick, thin, and in between. God gave and gives us the church, and God shared and shares God’s trees. Thanks be to God, and thank you, Tree!!

About this poem . . . I love trees, all trees. The first time I entered the sanctuary at Metropolitan Community Church of Washington, D.C.–for a denominational function years ago–I immediately saw the tree standing tall in the clear glass above the communion table. I stared, teared up at the simple elegance of a tree–we say Jesus died on a tree, for one thing, and for another, trees signify life for me–in that vision. I never forgot that tree, and always looked forward to seeing it on other visits. Now, I am a member of the congregation, along with the tree, and I see my friend each week. I give God thanks for the gift which will never die in my heart.

A Reflection in Response to Proper 20, 18th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C (Luke16:1-13)

A cool September morning, walking in the park, my husband talking about work troubles, our dog sniffing the ground and eying the scampering squirrels, birds flitting and singing, we sharing good mornings with those on the same path, admiring other dogs, all the while I keep hearing Jesus, you cannot serve God and wealth, or the way I learned it long ago, God versus Mammon, the god of money, Caesar, evil chasing after wealth, visions of an ugly beast with multiple tentacles reaching out to ensnare us all into putting the pursuit of worldly riches at the center of life.

godmammon.com

Sometimes he just gets in your head and you can’t stop it, sort of like the manager in Jesus’ parable caught up in what he saw as survival, leveraging what was not his to keep him from money or Mammon ruin, forgetting about honor or responsibility— and strangely he seems to come out alright avoiding the axe using other peoples’ money; is this not what we read about with banks too big to fail? Is Jesus recommending cheating those who are owed? Or is he playing us, and his hearers? I don’t claim to know, some scholars I read seem unclear at best, so I can only say the Jesus I know does not dismiss honor, care, love, responsibility, moral judgment so easily. You just have to take my word on that. Or not.

Wall Street, even lobby of my friendly local credit union, feel far away, because I keep hearing Jesus who once again sounds like a socialist, not a fan of free enterprise, or consumersm. Ouch. Most U.S. citizens are not partial to that label, despite The Bern, not ready to see the welfare of the mass more important than the profit of the few who make it work, no prophet of that ancient view accepted even in his hometown or sanctuaries that claim him for their own. Once again Jesus unsettles the easy assumptions of my life and the lives of my comrades in the pews, and so we look away, embarrassed by the demand on our individual and collective soul. Why does he do this again, force us to stand, uncomfortable like school children found wanting, not knowing our lessons and resentful that we cannot go to recess and play as if we have no cares, pretending that no one Is hungry, no one is shivering, no one is dying from neglect?

A walk in the park is a choice for health and happiness; the market says we have choices, and we do, between brands of toothpaste and cars, but Jesus reminds us we have real choices, life and death soul choices.

About this poem . . . . This choice Jesus calls us to make, between focusing on God and focusing on wealth or money or Mammon, is perhaps the most difficult one there is, at least in the United States where the reigning ideology is about getting enough wealth to survive and then to do more, to become wealthy enough to live well and then better and better, until we die and leave it our loved ones who can continue the quest. We are, it seems a “more” culture—everyone wants, we are told by experts, 20% more than they have . . . and that is true if we are at the bottom of the economic pile or the top. Do not our things get in the way of our relationship with God? What are we supposed to do?

Reflection in response to Proper 19, 17th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C

Jesus’ long line coming before him, just like us, includes: Moses being told by God to get down off the mountain to stop the golden calf, Jeremiah speaking of God’s anger at foolish people, psalmists singing of people, us, gone astray. And then there are those who grumble because he dares to hang out with, even like, wrong people, you know those who still make golden stock portfolios, who make fools of themselves denying God and others, who wander off from divine connection, maybe never seeking that gift so they do not even know what they are missing, until they meet Jesus.

princetonlgbt.tumblr.com

That’s the point, right? Freshest recruits for spiritual awakening are not among the practiced who already know the answers everyone else knows, those running church affairs who view order as the sign of their faithful stewardship, or those who daily read their Bibles avoiding new ideas religiously. Moses was not the only one who encountered stiff-necked people, and their descendants are all too sure of themselves today. A question for this time: would Jesus join us for worship or would he be on the wrong side of town hanging out on the street asking passersby for spare change for homeless people, or joining protests against police brutality in the ‘hood, or maybe drawing crowds in alleys as he healed the sick, lame, blind, and lonely?

Brother Bayard Rustin praised angelic troublemakers— he was one himself—and he knew heaven rejoiced when someone cared more for healing a hurt or righting a wrong than for living decently and in the correct order. God is indeed merciful, waiting patiently for us to get things turned upside down by worldly standards, that is, divinely right side up.

About this poem. . . It is easy to feel superior to those who questioned Jesus’ choice of companions, but do we really get the radical demand he places on us? How much time do we spend hunting for, caring for, the lost sheep, or do we just walk by them on the street?

A Reflection in Response to Proper 18, 16th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C,
(especially Luke 14:25-33)

Disciples walk, at least those following Jesus, and not just the Galilean ones but today’s as well, but not always a pleasant garden stroll, chatting, admiring the flowers and butterflies; more often a demanding call on our soul and body, asking us to set aside important things, as we see, for life-changing, even world-changing acts of faith, trust, love and justice to transform ourselves, maybe all God’s people, and even save some corner of God’s earth.

James Joseph Jacques Tissot, Brooklyn Museum (public domain)

A lesbian woman goes on a journey, connecting with her soul and body, as loved ones reject her— you are not our daughter, sister, they say, we no more family— her walk feeling desert dry, dust caking her mouth and her heart. She keeps walking with Jesus her disciple walk of truth, wholeness, beside him. A writer denying his craft for more lifetimes than he cares to count hears the call, laying down what he thought the world wanted from him and walks not really knowing the direction but trusting Jesus by his side. One, sometimes a man, sometimes woman, who has every possession, trips over all the stuff— lands upside down hearing the voice trying to get through for so many years, gives up trying to decide which of six homes to visit, what investments to sell, which party to attend— breaks clean from that pursuit to kneel and pray and then gives most all away save one little urban bungalow and some green energy stocks and peace bonds, to walk sweaty streets with the Lord, greeting homeless, ex-cons, disturbed, old and young, inviting them home to a meal and shower, lessons in self-care, clean clothes, job and education links, like some latter day Paul saving souls they used to condemn.

Not all disciple walks are dramatic, a change in attitude enough to turn around to walk with Jesus rather than against him. What voice are you hearing , or refusing to hear? Walking beside him may not be the same as following; turning back is harder when you are shoulder to shoulder. It’s not too late to turn aside from the demands we and the world have put at the center to walk with the One who is the center.